6: Broken Fortress (16 page)

 
But he suspected that Jath’ibaye could never feel the same about being the Rifter. It simply wasn’t in his nature to take pride in sheer destruction. He did not glory in the thousands who had died at his hands. Another man might have relished being the Rifter. A man who enjoyed the power it gave him over all other life would have exploited every opportunity to terrify and punish those around him. A man like Ourath would have crushed the world on a whim—just because he had one bad day. Kahlil himself would have demanded temples and palaces. He would have expected and taken dominion over all of Basawar.
 

 
Jath’ibaye had done none of that. He suppressed the devastating forces within himself with a constant, almost reflexive self-restraint.
 

So many years spent with John lent Kahlil easy insight into Jath’ibaye’s nature. Doubtless his restraint was in part concern. Jath’ibaye did not want to cause another cataclysm. But there was extremism to Jath’ibaye’s self-deprivation—his rough clothes, tough food, constant exertions and injuries—that bordered on punishment for the thousands he’d killed. He would not allow himself to forget or forgive. Kahlil wondered if he ever would.
 

Kahlil realized that there might have been more behind Ji’s insistence that he watch over Jath’ibaye than just a little sleep deprivation. Kahlil himself had been shocked to discover that Jath’ibaye had known Ourath was planning to kill him. He had known and still followed Ourath anyway.

On a sudden impulse, Kahlil caught Jath’ibaye’s hand. Jath’ibaye looked at him, slightly startled.

“Stop worrying so much,” Kahlil told him.

“I…” Jath’ibaye began, but then he cut himself short. “Was it that obvious?”

“I can’t think of any other reason you’d miss this opportunity to describe the unique attributes of this oddly winter-hardy vine,” Kahlil replied.
 

Jath’ibaye laughed.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I must have been distracted. The vine is called frostbraid. It’s notable for its very high content of glycerol, which aside from being a natural anti-freeze, also comes in handy in the production of smokeless gunpowder.”

“A very useful botanical then,” Kahlil commented, and Jath’ibaye nodded a little absently. Kahlil squeezed his hand.

“Whatever’s bothering you, let it go. If trouble comes, I’ll handle it.”

Jath’ibaye seemed amused and Kahlil knew it was because Jath’ibaye found his arrogant statement charming. He interlaced his fingers with Jath’ibaye’s.

“So, how are you going to avoid a war for me?” Jath’ibaye asked.

“The older gaun’im will remember the last wars. They won’t want another,” Kahlil replied.
 

“Let’s hope so,” Jath’ibaye said. “But I wasn’t just thinking of the gaun’im.”

“You mean Fikiri?” Kahlil asked. “I think I handled him pretty well.”

Jath’ibaye nodded gravely, then said, “You did, but he came alone this time.”

“Does he have the forces to mount a large offensive?” Kahlil felt slightly cold at the thought of a battle on two fronts. How could a country as small as Vundomu fight the gaun’im in the south and Fikiri in the north at the same time?

“Every year there are more hungry bones. And they get bigger. He’s bringing up creatures from the ocean, using their bones.” Jath’ibaye frowned at the clear blue northern sky.

“I could go now and take him out,” Kahlil said.

“No.” Jath’ibaye suddenly returned his grip with force. “I need you here when the gaun’im arrive. Fikiri will come to us again. He always does.”

“It might take him off guard if I went—”

“No.” Jath’ibaye didn’t raise his voice, but Kahlil couldn’t miss the finality of his expression. “Right now I need you here, with me.”
 

“All right,” Kahlil agreed. “I just want to do something to help you.”

“You can. You have,” Jath’ibaye replied. He pulled Kahlil close and kissed him. Kahlil guessed that it had been meant to be a brief, mollifying gesture. But he returned the kiss with passion. It wasn’t in his nature to accept a chaste peck and quiet down—especially not after winning a fight. Instantly, he felt the response in Jath’ibaye’s body.
 

 
Jath’ibaye’s hands slid inside Kahlil’s coat. The chill of Jath’ibaye’s fingertips traced the line of Kahlil’s back. Jath’ibaye’s hands were warming up quickly. He touched and held Kahlil as they kissed. Kahlil pressed closer, slipping his hand into the front pocket of Jath’ibaye’s pants. A brief gasp escaped Jath’ibaye. His arms tensed around Kahlil’s body.

From above them, there suddenly came a soft cough. They bolted apart and turned. Ji stood on the steps ahead of them.
 

“Eriki’yu asked me to tell you that your meal is ready,” Ji said to Jath’ibaye. She glanced to Kahlil, and for an instant, he thought that she might have been grinning.

Chapter Sixty-One

Over the next five days Fikiri stayed away, but the gaun’im drew nearer. Jath’ibaye hardly ate or slept but seemed occupied every moment by either preparations or evacuations now necessitated by the threat of a gaun’im attack against the southern border. Kahlil occupied himself by honing Pesha’s skills and training with the kahlirash’im.
   

Though, late in the afternoon, he found himself trailing along beside Ji as she surveyed the incantations etched into the flagstones of the kahlirash training grounds. Kahlil hoped that she could adapt them in some manner to secure the grounds so that Fikiri could not breach them. At the very least he wanted to offer Pesha some security when he was called away to deal with the gaun’im.

“Yes,” Ji murmured. “Yes, these will do.”
 

Kahlil leaned against one of the black pillars of the kahlirash’im’s barrack. Overhead, the sky was growing dark. The faint disc of the moon shone overhead like a luminous drop of wax. Kahlil lowered his gaze and studied the distant white line of the northern horizon. Somewhere out there beyond his sight was an army. Fikiri and his Lady were waiting, amassing thousands of hungry bones.

Much closer and more immediately visible were the gaun’im’s armies that had converged just south of Vundomu at the mouth of the river in the city Mahn’illev.
 

Through Jath’ibaye’s telescope he’d seen the banners of all seven families flying over battalion after battalion of troops. But they did not disturb Kahlil quite as much as the possibility of an attack from the north. He could count the numbers of men assembled in the south. He could see riders and foot soldiers clashing while their commanders argued among themselves.
 

Compared to the perfect order of the kahlirash’im, the untried gaun’im’s armies presented an undisciplined, chaotic force. They had obviously been thrown together to create the illusion of a vast, unified military—as if ages of rivalries could be miraculously forgotten in a few days. Kahlil had lived with Bousim rashan’im. He knew how strongly they disdained the Lisam riders. Naye’ro rashan’im constantly brawled with those from Du’yura. Such animosities were common among the gaun’im’s rashan’im.
 

It reassured Kahlil to discover, at a glance, a weakness to exploit.
 

Their sheer numbers certainly constituted a genuine threat, but they did not present him with a vision of doom.

The enemies hidden within the northern mist were different. Kahlil had only glimpsed their power in the fear that gripped the people of Vundomu, in Jath’ibaye’s troubled silences, and in the constant flashes of white bones that hunted him in his dreams. None of which offered him anything real to observe, beyond one brief clash with Fikiri. He could not assess the strength or weakness of shadows moving through distant mists.

Ji’s low voice murmured Eastern words that Kahlil didn’t recognize. She paused every few feet and scraped her claws against the flagstones surrounding the kahlirash courtyard. Each time she dragged her claws against a stone, a soft pulse shuddered through the stones at Kahlil’s feet. Beside him, Ji staggered but then steadied herself and moved to the next flagstone.

The dark red blood staining her paws and claws was Jath’ibaye’s. No other blood could offer her more power. Though Kahlil had found the amount Jath’ibaye had readily sacrificed disconcerting.
 

From the stones behind Ji, thin trails of steam rose like vapor rising from dry ice. The blood burned and bubbled, revealing incantations that must have been carved there years before. Kahlil could feel the difference in the air of the courtyard. It was tighter, almost acrid in his lungs. His tension increased as the sensations of open air and cool wind faded from the courtyard and its resemblance to those dark chambers where Dayyid had confined and beaten him grew.

Ji finished the last stone, creating a wall around the grounds. Fikiri would have to leave the Gray Space if he wanted to cross the barrier and enter the courtyard. Outside of the Gray Space he would be vulnerable. The ritual was obviously a powerful defense, but it demanded immense effort and a god’s blood just to secure a few yards. It also grew weaker the larger the area it was used to protect. This courtyard was probably the limit. But at least Pesha would be safe during their practices.
 

 
Ji limped to Kahlil’s side and lay down at his feet as if she were dying. She smelled of blood and sweat. “It’s done,” she said quietly.

Kahlil crouched down beside her. “Are you all right?”
 

“I’ll be better in a while,” Ji answered. “What about you?”

“Me? I’m fine.” Kahlil arched a brow. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to hear you say so,” Ji replied.
 

“I’m very good.” Without thinking, Kahlil reached out to stroke Ji’s shoulder as if she were a familiar pet. He stopped himself, horrified at his gaffe. Ji glanced up at him and laughed.

“Go ahead,” Ji said. “It’s one of the few advantages of this body. It’s easier for people to give and receive affection from an animal. A woman as old as I am living in her natural body would never be fortunate enough to be touched and hugged as often as I am.”

Kahlil gently petted Ji’s shoulders and back. Her hair was coarse and shedding. He could feel her bones just under her thin skin. She felt too frail to even be alive. She closed her eyes, but Kahlil could tell from her breathing that she wasn’t asleep.

“How old are you, Ji?”

“Oh, I’ve probably stayed in this worn out body too long. Sixty years is a long time for dog-flesh to last, even with a witch wearing it.” Her tone struck Kahlil as fond, as though she were speaking of a favorite dress and not her own body. Ji’s tail flopped softly against the flagstones. “I suppose I should change, but I’ve grown so familiar with this body…I love being able to smell so much.”

Kahlil scratched behind her ears and Ji leaned into his hand.

“Saimura wants me to take a human body again,” she confided. “But I can’t bring myself to steal another woman’s flesh. Not even a criminal’s. I remember too well how I suffered when mine was stripped from me.”

“That must have been long ago.” Even when he’d still been a child, Ji Shir’korud, the demoness in animal flesh, had been famous in the heights of Rathal’pesha.

“Yes, long ago. Though time changes when you become an issusha,” she replied. “I turned fiftythe summer the Eastern kingdom fell into the sea and I felt ancient then. I don’t know how long the Payshmura kept my bones at Umbhra’ibaye after that. I saw kingdoms rise and fall, histories play out, and then alter, and run their course again. I couldn’t say how long I remained imprisoned before your mother took pity on me and freed me.” Ji sighed. “She was quite brave, you know. Though, impulsive as well. You take after her.”

“I don’t remember much about either of my parents,” Kahlil admitted. What he could remember he did not like to think about. Ji seemed to recognize as much and let the subject rest.

 
Kahlil studied the north horizon. A luminous glow lit the pale sky, as if a second sun hung in the north. He thought he saw a flicker of lightning jump through the walls of clouds and mist.

“Ji, do you know anything about the forces in the north?” Kahlil asked.

She opened her dark eyes. “What has Jath’ibaye told you?”
 

“Just that he’s worried. And that he doesn’t want me going there.”

“Well, it is worrying and you shouldn’t go there,” Ji told him. “Out past the edge of the chasm, there is an island where the monastery of Rathal’pesha once stood. You died there.” Ji paused, studying Kahlil. The last time she had told him of his death he’d fled. Now Kahlil merely waited for her to continue.